Holly Day writes

When We Go

When I disappear, it will be
to follow some jazz trio from Eastern Europe
bent on subverting and seducing
middle-aged housewives across the country,
with plans to take us back with them
put handkerchief headgear on us
and cotton aprons wide enough
to cover our breasts completely.

We will all be pregnant
by the time the plane touches down
some with trombones, some with castanets
all of us fretting about
our American accents
how vodka doesn’t taste as good drunk from an old goat skin,
and how our lovers insist that we stop
shaving our armpits and writing home
and especially pretending this
is just another phase.

Woman with buckets and a child -- Kasimir Malevich